


home away from home

by ambitioncutsusdown



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst, Emotions, M/M, Minor Character Death, Stisaac Week
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-08
Updated: 2013-11-08
Packaged: 2017-12-31 21:35:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,368
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1036642
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ambitioncutsusdown/pseuds/ambitioncutsusdown
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Maybe it was because it hurt too much, seeing one another without their mothers in close proximity. Maybe it was because Stiles’ dad couldn’t handle it and Isaac’s dad, well… couldn’t handle it either.<br/></p>
            </blockquote>





	home away from home

**Author's Note:**

> written for stisaac week. prompt by [beacockhills](beacockhills.tumblr.com): "Stiles and Isaac barely know each other, but they see each other around the graveyard a lot. They bond over their mothers."  
> Goes with [this](http://ambitioncutsusdown.tumblr.com/post/66390856248/stisaac-week-stiles-and-isaac-barely-know-each) post.

In ten years, when people will ask them how they found each other, Stiles and Isaac will look at each other fondly and smile, then one will say “our family,” and the other will shake his head and say “music.” Then they’ll nod and simultaneously repeat “music.”

People will think they were fans of the same groups, or played the same instruments, or maybe even met at a concert, yet nothing could be further from the truth.

And that’s okay, because the truth doesn’t matter anyway. What people imagine is probably much sweeter than reality, and they’re both aware of the importance of imagination.

You see, Isaac and Stiles knew each other, but they didn’t really _know_ each other.

Isaac had vague memories of playing with Stiles when they were five, stealing cookies together when they were six, playing hide-and-seek when they were seven, and sharing comic books when they were eight. He couldn’t recall seeing Stiles after that until they were both fifteen and in the same class again (the name Stiles Stilinski isn’t one you easily forget, no matter how much Stiles might have grown and changed).

Of course, he knew Stiles’ mother had died (which was the main reason their contact pretty much stopped. Their mothers used to be close. Then they both passed away. That’s how life goes) but that wasn’t something they spoke about. Actually, they hadn’t talked at all for years until all the werewolf-shenanigans began.

Maybe it was because it hurt too much, seeing one another without their mothers in close proximity. Maybe it was because Stiles’ dad couldn’t handle it and Isaac’s dad, well… couldn’t handle it either.

Their encounters in the past stayed there. Neither of them ever brought it up, so as far as anyone knew, they’d never spoken to each other because fate (alternatively called werewolves) brought them together again.

And then again, on a rainy day in October.

It was few days before Halloween when they saw each other again. Both were seventeen, both had taken a few hours for themselves to just _be_ instead of _do_. And apparently, both found the best way to do that was by going to the graveyard, no matter how ironic that may be.

What better place to remember you’re alive than a yard full of dead people, right?

At first, Stiles tried to ignore Isaac and keep to himself, figuring it was better not to disturb someone while mourning their mother. That was why he was surprised when Isaac started talking to him. “How long’s it been?” Isaac asked softly.

“Eight years,” Stiles replied without looking up.

“Seven years,” Isaac said, referring to his own mother.

Stiles nodded and that was that.

A week later they accidentally met a second a second time, and a third time not much later, always at the cemetery. Their conversations got a bit longer every time, a little deeper. A little more personal.

“She liked the smell of pancakes,” Isaac told him as he tightened his coat around his frame, trying to block out the cold November winds.

“She taught me how to make white chocolate brownies,” Stiles said, blinking a few times because begin December brought rain and Stiles never brought an umbrella and now water was sticking to his eyelashes.

“I still have the clothes I wore to her funeral,” Isaac confessed, wrapping his arms around himself, but this time against a cold that was all inside of him.

“Before she died she made me a drawing. I kept it under my pillow for nearly two years,” Stiles replied while looking up at the sky, thinking how maybe they might have a white Christmas this year.

One day they met on the parking lot of the graveyard. They stared at each other for a few seconds, then Stiles shoulder sagged and he sighed. “Let’s go for pizza instead,” he suggested.

Isaac climbed in his jeep and buckled up, flashing Stiles a sheepish smile.

They discussed books and school stuff and shared pizza. “I still miss her,” Stiles confessed.

“I forgot what it’s like to miss her,” Isaac whispered. “I wish I’d had more time.”

“Me too,” Stiles muttered, followed by another sigh. He reached out to rest his hand over Isaac’s, but changed his mind the last second and grabbed his glass instead, taking a sip of his coke, feeling it tingle on his tongue.

When they met again, it was winter and snow covered the ground. Isaac gave Stiles his gloves because no matter how many layer Stiles wore, decent winterwear was something he didn’t have, apparently.

“I know her favorite music but I can’t remember her voice. I know her favorite movies but the color of her eyes is fading in my memory,” Isaac whispered, hands tucked deep in the pockets of his jacket.

“I remember her voice but I know nothing about the things she liked,” Stiles told him.

They both pretended they were shivering because of the cold. They both pretended the other was as well. They both pretended not to care.

The last week of January brought them together again. Stiles laid a white rose of the grave of Isaac’s mother. Two days later, Isaac did the same for Stiles’ mother. They smiled for the sake of smiling.

Snow turned into rain and slowly, very slowly, the weather changed as well, temperatures now just cold instead of icecold.

“When I’m sad I still listen to her favorite music,” Isaac muttered one day.

“I wish I had her favorite music,” Stiles sighed.

“I wish I still had her,” Isaac replied.

For once, Stiles kept his mouth shut because there was nothing he could do to deny that, nor could he find something to say to make it better. He leaned closer to Isaac, making their shoulders touch. No one moved for the next fifteen minutes.

Stiles celebrated the first day of spring by going to the cemetery wearing a t-shirt. Isaac let him suffer for a few moments, but then it became too painful to watch and he gave Stiles his hoodie.

When Stiles got home again, he used said hoodie to snuggle, for the first time in years falling asleep with someone else’s things in his bed, with the feeling that it was protecting him.

“Do you still have the letters she wrote?”

Isaac shook his head and shifted on his feet. The sun was bright, like it often was in April, though it was still a bit chilly. “My father got rid of them,” he replied.

“Shame,” Stiles said.

Isaac nodded in agreement.

A week later, Stiles got a text from Isaac. “Meet me after school.” There was no place included, but Stiles knew where to be. There wasn’t even another option.

He only had to wait five minutes, standing in front of Isaac’s mother’s grave before Isaac himself shows up. “Hi,” he said, a little breathless and also a little flushed. “I got you something.”

Stiles took the package from Isaac and looked at it, recognizing a mix time. He lifted his head up in confusion.

“Songs that my mother liked. Or that remind me of her,” Isaac murmured, trying his hardest not to look Stiles in the eyes.

A warmth spread through Stiles’ veins, making him smile automatically. “Thank you,” he said. This time, when he reached out for Isaac’s hand, he took it and laced their fingers together.

He invited Isaac over to his place to they could listen to the CD together. Isaac cried a little, but Stiles wiped away his tears, ignoring the ones leaking from his own eyes. They curled up on Stiles’ bed, telling themselves it was to keep warm because despite the weather Stiles room was too cold. They stayed like that until the music stopped, and then a little longer because neither of them wanted to move.

Two days later, Stiles showed Isaac the drawing of his mother and Isaac kissed him for the first time, hard and needy, with even a tiny sliver of desperation, his palms cupping Stiles’ cheeks like he were the most precious thing in the universe. His CD was playing in the background, the songs now with an entire different meaning. 


End file.
